The Pact: Quick-Read Series, #7

By Allison M. Azulay

An abused woman needs a way to escape a harassing boss and a billionaire seeks a way out of a marriage he does not want.  The result:  a mad scheme to ensure his freedom and her salvation.

• Language: English
• Publisher: ALLISON MARGARET AZULAY
• Release date: Mar 18, 2019
• ISBN: 9781989215371

Allison M. Azulay

Born to Canadian parents of mixed, predominantly British heritage, Allison M. Azulay spent her formative years in a village outside of the capital city of Ottawa and her teen years in the steel city of Hamilton, Ontario. Like her mother, she read voraciously, and she composed stories of her own at home as well as in school. Later, encouraged by her husband to explore her ideas and talents, she wrote poems, short stories, children's storybooks for relatives, and more. After the death of her husband, she began to write and independently publish novels and short stories.

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Allison M. Azulay

THE PACT

A Quick-Read Romance

Copyright © 2019 by Allison M. Azulay.  All rights reserved.

The use of any part of this publication, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, or stored in a retrieval system without the prior written consent of the publisher is an infringement of the copyright law, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

The Pact is a work of fiction.  Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.  Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

www.allison-m-azulay.ca

ISBN 978-1-989215-37-1 (e-book)

Cover design by SelfPubBookCovers.com/DesignzbyDanielle

Published in Renfrew, Ontario, Canada

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

NOTE TO READERS

Chapter 1

EDWARD GODFREY SEABERT-HALL shoved his hands into his suit pockets as he exited the elevator and strode through the lobby of the high-rise where his family kept a penthouse suite.  He glowered at no one in particular and ground his teeth, oblivious of the uniformed woman who opened the glass door as he approached.  On the avenue, he turned right and stalked past the flower vendor from whom he usually bought a boutonnière.  He walked on and on, paying no heed to his surroundings, to the pedestrians among whom he wove, to the honking cabs and bumper-to-bumper traffic of the city, to the hawkers who tried in vain to capture his attention.

After a time, awareness penetrated his self-absorption, awareness of a difference in his environment:  of laughter and delighted squeals, of dappled shade and sunny sky, of a potent odour of sausage and garlic carried on occasional gusts of wind.  He stopped in midstride and looked around to discover himself in one of the poorer districts.  Edging the street, he saw, shops crowded together, their wide windows sheltered by colourful awnings and many of them fronted by tabletop displays, samples of the wares to be found inside.  Men in aprons stood in doorways, chatting with customers or neighbouring merchants.  Mothers pushed strollers and browsed the offerings.  Children of various ages ran along the sidewalks, dodging adults and shouting to one another.  A dog yapped excitedly as it chased the youngsters.  And a pair of men in brown coveralls wheeled hand-trucks laden with cartons from the rear of a white van to the open door of a small grocery.

Motion above directed Edward’s attention to a woman leaning out an upper window and shaking a small cloth.  When she drew back into her apartment, he scanned the second- and third-storey windows, some open to the summer air and some decorated by tiny garden boxes bursting with pink petunias or red geraniums, yellow pansies or verdant clusters of herbs.  Above the cement-grey cornices that defined the flat roofs of the ruddy brick buildings, white clouds drifted in the deep-blue of the afternoon sky.

A leaf floated by on the breeze, and he turned to survey the little square park hemmed on four sides by narrow streets and low-rise structures.  It wasn’t much:  merely a scrubby patch of turf with five trees and a couple of small beds of flowers probably tended by some local with a desire to connect with Nature.  But an empty wooden bench beckoned, and he wandered across the grass to sit and observe the interactions of the denizens of the working-class district.

These people seemed...happy.  Though cheap and well-worn garments, and peeling paint on window trim and door jambs, and masonry in need of repair all attested to a lack of resources, these ordinary folk appeared to be content with their lot.  So, what was wrong with him? he wondered.  Here he was:  a man of means and breeding, healthy and handsome, educated and cultured, a member of the country’s uppercrust with every imaginable advantage...and he was miserable.

He sighed.

THE SUN HAD DROPPED toward the rooftops on his right when someone quietly joined him at the other end of the bench.  Edward Seabert-Hall glanced to the woman who perched with white purse on her lap and deep-navy skirt tucked discreetly under her thighs.  Two feet away, she could have been on a separate planet, so isolated did she seem.  She stared at the ground before her, her bearing dignified but her countenance, though outwardly impassive, giving an impression of deep sadness.

For no reason he could fathom he said, Hello.

When she looked his way, startled and blinking, he smiled and confessed, I’m not even sure where I am.  I took a walk this morning and....  He lifted his hands in a gesture that encompassed the entire neighbourhood to finish, Now, here I am.

She regarded him a moment before she told him, It’s Centretown.  You’re in Centretown.

Ah, he acknowledged.  I’ve never been here before.

She eyed him without comment.  Then, she turned away to resume her public solitude.

He studied her.  She had the unmistakable air of a secretary or clerk...some sort of administrative assistant, he guessed by the white cotton blouse, straight dark rayon skirt, and plain grey faux-leather shoes.  The hands that clutched the handbag bore no rings and the only ornament she wore was a pair of fake-pearl earrings.  The hair cropped to fall just below her chin in a straight bob shone light-brown in the waning light.  And her features, both face and figure, though not unbecoming, were altogether unexceptional to the point of being nondescript...utterly forgettable.

Yet something about her attracted him and piqued his curiosity.

Do you come here often? he asked.

Again, she startled at his attention.  Hesitantly, she responded with eyes drifting back toward the ground, No...Well, yes.  I suppose I do.

He pressed, I know it’s none of my business, but you seem...unhappy about something.

At that, she glanced up to hold his gaze briefly before she again averted her eyes and murmured, Well...things don’t always....

Under his breath, he filled in the unspoken words, Work out as we hope.

It